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  “You okay?” he asked, his eyes kind, searching hers.

  “Yeah, I know this vandalism is easily fixed, but—”

  “Can we get on with this without all that touchy-feely crap? I want to see the back of my eyelids in the next century,” Mr. Hibbett complained.

  Eleanor retwisted her hair into a ponytail. “Lead the way.”

  After spending the next forty-five minutes boarding up the broken windows, signing the police reports and sweeping up, Eleanor turned to where Dez stood across the street, depositing the last of the glass fragments into the curbside garbage can.

  She walked across and studied the wood covering his window. “Thank you.”

  Dez dusted his hands. “Of course.”

  “I’m opposed to a nightclub in this particular vicinity, but beyond that, you were a good neighbor tonight.”

  His gray eyes swept over her once again. This time she didn’t worry about the way her hair fell out of the pony and the fact her crow’s-feet were probably deepened in the shadows. Because he wasn’t attracted to her. And he wasn’t an option.

  “I’m still determined to change your mind. My club will help the neighborhood. All it takes is seeing things in a new light. Maybe one of my patrons will see a table in your window and come back the next day, or pop back by Butterfield’s for morning coffee, or remember she needs party invitations from that kinda strange dude. You have to try things from a new angle. Step outside your expectations.”

  His words echoed those of Pansy, who constantly nagged her to expand her mind and see possibility. But Eleanor wasn’t good at breaking out of the safe cubby she’d created for herself these past years. She knew she needed to take chances like she knew she needed to clean out her front closet…but some things were easier when ignored.

  “Maybe so, but I still have doubts. We’ve worked hard to make these couple of blocks of Magazine reputable and safe.” She peered around at the scene that made her words false. “Or as safe as it can be.”

  “Right,” he said, surveying the freshly boarded windows, giving her a nice vista of hard jaw and broad shoulder.

  “This could have happened anywhere, but feel free to convince me otherwise.” She almost groaned at the suggestion he must convince her. Sounded as though she’d issued a challenge. Like she wanted to spend more time with him.

  You’re overanalyzing. He’s not into you, Eleanor, baby, so forget about the imaginary vibes. Stick to your guns on the opposition to the club and finding Mr. Fortysomething with silver temples and a pet wiener dog.

  “Well, I’ve got a bath to finish and some z’s to catch. Good night,” she said, walking backward.

  Dez’s gaze sparked. “I’ll take that image with me.”

  Good God. He had a dimple in his right cheek—a small one that begged to be kissed. Her body thrummed at the thought of placing her lips in the slight indention…and on other parts of him. Eleanor stopped in the middle of the street. “Flirting will get you nowhere.”

  Or maybe it would get him a free ticket into her bed.

  “You seem like the kind of woman who needs a little flirting in her life.”

  “Me?” she asked.

  “Oh, definitely.”

  Undeniable purr. No mistaking his intent. Dez had tossed out a sexual overture, and suddenly she climbed on a roller coaster, embracing that pent-up expectation as the car ticked up the incline, knowing the plunge would soon take her belly away.

  “Well, then, I—” Eleanor didn’t really know what to say. She hadn’t flirted since Bill Clinton’s administration. Maybe she needed to buy Flirting for Dummies. “See you later.”

  And then she hurried back to her car like some buttoned-up virgin who’d just caught the eye of the football captain. Pathetic. Screw Flirting for Dummies. She needed a copy of Cosmopolitan, stat.

  Beneath the feeling of being sort of lame was the celebration she wasn’t a withered, used-up old hag just yet. The hot guy liked her. The hot guy thought she needed some flirting…and maybe more. So, yeah, there might be hope for Eleanor Theriot.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DEZ SLID ONTO a worn stool and held up a finger. “Scotch and soda.”

  Bigmouth Sam waddled toward where Dez sat at the end of the bar. Sam wagged his head like an old hound dog. “That’s heartache medicine. You got a sweet thang I ain’t know about?”

  Dez tapped the bar. “Nah, just need something to make me forget about the money falling out of my pocket.”

  Bigmouth Sam swiped the bar with a damp cloth and leveled bloodshot eyes at him. “Hate to say—”

  “I told you so,” Dez finished for his friend. Bigmouth Sam had run the Bigmouth Blues Bar on Frenchmen Street for over forty years. The bar was an institution, frequented by musicians and tourists alike, revered for its strong drinks, smoked oysters and sassy-mouth waitresses wearing short skirts and tight Tshirts that read Open Wide. And that was the icing for the serious cake of music that was served nightly. The older man had talked a rare blue streak trying to stop Dez from opening a club. He’d said it would suck out his soul and take his money with it.

  Maybe Big Sam was right.

  But Dez was as stubborn as he was talented and couldn’t be convinced. He knew this about himself and accepted it. Besides, he wasn’t all the way alone in the venture—Reggie Carney, a Pro Bowl lineman for the Saints, was his silent partner. Somehow, having a partner, one with some clout, comforted. “Guess I’m a slave to my mistress. I don’t want a different gig at a different place every night.”

  Johnny Durant elbowed his way between Dez and a pretty-decent-looking coed and called to Sam, “Give me a Heiney and put Dez’s drink on my tab. The tips are hot tonight, my man.”

  Dez held up his glass, clinking it against the icy bottle Sam handed Johnny. “Get it while it’s good, bro.”

  “Damn straight,” Johnny said, downing several gulps. Perspiration glistened on the man’s brow. Most drummers who played like Johnny D would be drenched by now, but Johnny was a cool cat, sliding out easy tempos, his voice verging on a croon, his songs tight with a traditional bass line. “You got any new stuff yet?”

  Dez’s gut twisted. Everybody wanted new stuff from him. Didn’t matter where he played, who he ran into, what he delivered behind the piano, everyone wanted something new. Something different. Something revolutionary.

  But Dez had run out of new long ago.

  Everything started with the storm. After years of collaboration on other people’s albums, Dez had written some good solo stuff. His turn in the spotlight had been washed away by Hurricane Katrina. He’d been in the studio cutting the demo two weeks before the storm hit. And then everything, the only recording that had tasted like magic, that had the whole music scene in New Orleans buzzing, had been destroyed. The entire studio had been under five feet of water. No demo. No debut.

  His grief had lasted for almost a year, and every time he tried to write music, he failed. He couldn’t feel it anymore. What had once flowed in him like life’s blood had vanished.

  Old standards weren’t a problem. Those melodies weren’t his. He hadn’t poured his soul into those runs, into those words, so he’d gotten a gig playing at a hotel bar in Houston, subbing in for other bands when he could get the work. The few visits home he’d made to fulfill his obligations with a youth music program called Second Line Players or to back up Trombone Sonny at a festival or two, only filled him with a weight he couldn’t explain or drink away.

  And then he’d met Erin Garcia.

  And shut himself off from his dreams, jumping into a life he’d never imagined—a life of grilling burgers, going to movies and making love on Sunday mornings. He’d gone to work overseeing her father’s upscale restaurants, paying a mortgage on a house they’d bought together, taking the dog for a walk every night, scooping up poop and convincing himself he could walk a new path and forge a regular-Joe life.

  But even that couldn’t make him whole again. Eventually, he’d realized he couldn’t
take his city out of his bones nor could he pretend to be someone he wasn’t. Maybe he had more of his rambling daddy in him than he thought…at least when it came to settling down with one woman. Or maybe he’d hidden long enough from who he was…a songwriter and musician.

  “Come play with me, man,” Johnny D said, jarring Dez from his thoughts. Johnny jerked his head in the direction of the old upright standing in the corner awaiting a loose-limbed rollicking New Orleans rag.

  “Nah, man, I ain’t in the mood,” Dez said, downing the rest of the Scotch, willing the fiery liquid to wash away the memories, as well as the image of the shattered glass outside Blue Rondo.

  “Horseshit. You’re always in the mood. Let’s go,” Johnny said, slapping his shoulder and disappearing into the crowd, heading for the stage.

  Bigmouth Sam jerked his head. “This crowd wants a beat, but do ‘Take Five’ for last call.”

  Dez slid off the stool. “I want to find my bed, man.”

  Bigmouth Sam grinned. “Yeah, but you’s a Batiste, and music’s in that blood. You ain’t turnin’ down hittin’ that piano any more than I’d turn down hittin’ Beyoncé if she’s standin’ here wantin’ it.”

  Dez snorted, grabbed an almost-empty bottle of Crown and turned. “Beyoncé’s married and so are you.”

  “You think thatta matter to me? Hell, naw. And I charge for that drink.”

  “It’s my fee for playing,” Dez called over his shoulder, slugging back a few gulps of the Crown as he made his way to the piano. Several ladies eyed either him or the bottle of booze appreciatively. Maybe he’d take one of them home…or maybe he’d just go back to his place uptown and enjoy the peace of his bed and the cool satin sheets he’d bought a few weeks ago.

  Johnny had started without him, backed up on guitar by Jose Mercury, who played enthusiastically if not technically sound. Denny Jay handled the bass and Carl Van Petzel took a break from the piano at a nearby table. He held his drink up with a grin as Dez passed him, sat down at the bench and joined in on “Where Y’at?” settling into the groove, letting the music flow through him. It wasn’t like before, but he allowed the chords to wash over him, heal him, soothe those pains he’d never faced with the sweetest of balms—music.

  It was the only way to feel again.

  Maybe the only way he’d ever get back to his own music. Ever since the waters had come and tried to wash New Orleans away, Dez hadn’t been able to find what had made him who he was—the man who could create, tying beats and chords together with reckless abandon that somehow worked to create a distinctive sound of funk, jazz and blues with a thread of Bounce.

  The fact of the matter was Dez Batiste could play the piano, but he’d lost his mojo.

  *

  ELEANOR SET THE PHONE on the desk as Blakely outlined all the reasons she needed a new Valentino bag, and picked up the freight slips on the new shipments from England. Two tables had been damaged beyond repair and she’d need to file a damage claim with the shipping company.

  “Mom? Hello?”

  Eleanor picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

  “Were you even listening?”

  “No. Because I’m not buying you a new purse. Too much money and you’re lucky you have the Louis Vuitton. Your grandmother’s a generous woman, and I do not want you asking her for this money. It’s not a necessity.”

  Silence sat like a bullfrog on the line.

  “Blakely?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “No. Because you aren’t telling me what I want to hear. I know it’s selfish, but I really love it—it’s shiny pink with the cutest bow.”

  Eleanor rolled her eyes. “And you’re a Phi Mu. Everything must be pink.”

  “Of course,” Blakely said with a smile in her voice, something that gave Eleanor a dollop of joy. She missed teasing Blakely. She missed a lot about having her daughter home…at least the daughter she used to know. This one seemed so distant, so not like the Blakely she’d raised to be smart, selfless and independent. “But Grandmother would—”

  “Honey, Margaret and Porter already pay half your tuition.” And, Lord, didn’t Margaret love to remind Eleanor. Didn’t matter the Theriots had paid the full bill on their other grandchildren, Margaret liked to remind Eleanor of the power they still possessed over her life in the form of their granddaughter, the last vestige of their precious angel of a son Skeeter.

  “Fine,” Blakely said, her voice showing not total acceptance, but at least acknowledging the truth in Eleanor’s words. Blakely had turned nineteen several months ago, and had suddenly fallen victim to the spoiled New Orleans debutante her grandmother pushed her to be. Eleanor had done her best to ground her daughter, but it was hard for Blakely to resist the lavish gifts, the fancy school and the convertible BMW sent her way. The Theriots had money, position and shitty self-control when it came to their grandchildren.

  “So, how’d you do on your last psychology test?”

  “Okay,” Blakely hedged and Eleanor could almost see the panic in her daughter’s eyes. Blakely had always been a B student in high school and wasn’t a serious academic. “Hey, Mary Claire just texted me. We have to set up for the Kappa Alpha mixer, so can I call you later?”

  “Sure. Have fun. I love you.”

  “You, too,” Blakely said, hanging up.

  Eleanor sighed and tossed the new invoices down onto the desk as Tre passed by.

  “Hey, Tre?”

  The boy stopped and shifted backward to look into her office. “Ma’am?”

  “How was the game?”

  His normally guarded expression softened as it always did when he talked about his younger brother. “He did good. Only seven goals, but he had a lot of assists. Word’s out about him and they double-teamin’ him.”

  “That’s great.” She really liked Tre’s ten-year-old brother, Devontay “Shorty D” Jackson, who possessed more swagger than any hip-hop star and wore sunglasses à la Usher. Brash, funny and hiding a sweet heart behind his bravado, Shorty D was a favorite at the Queen’s Box. “Bring him by for doughnuts tomorrow after school.”

  “Yeah. I’ll do that,” Tre said, glancing about as if he were in a prison warden’s office. Always guarded to the point of looking hunted, Tre was the opposite of his younger brother. Tre graduated from St. Augustine, a traditionally African-American boys’ school, over a year ago and was saving up for classes at Delgado Community College in the fall. So far, he’d been a good worker—respectful, industrious and trustworthy—but Eleanor still didn’t know him well because he rarely talked about himself.

  “No deliveries this afternoon, but Pansy wants to rearrange the back room with the brass bed and steamer trunks, so if you’d give her a hand…”

  “Sure.”

  The phone rang and Tre backed out of the office, heading up front to where Pansy conversed with a customer who wanted a Tiffany-style lamp with a peacock shade. Eleanor answered the phone, hoping it was the guy from the glass company. “The Queen’s Box.”

  “Well, about time you answered my call. You’d think you’d have more respect for your husband’s family.”

  “Margaret,” Eleanor said, closing her eyes and banging a fist softly on her desk. Why hadn’t she checked caller ID?

  “Yes. Your mother-in-law. Or have you already forgotten so quickly?”

  “How could I?” Eleanor purposefully made her tone light…for her daughter’s sake. Blakely never saw past her grandmother’s veneer to the controlling nutcase beneath the cashmere sweater sets. Years ago, after a heated discussion with the Theriots, ending with Blakely in tears, Eleanor had promised to tolerate Margaret’s meddling, if only to keep the peace. “My shop was vandalized last night, and I’ve been quite literally picking up the pieces.”

  “When will you let that store go? It’s been nothing but trouble—a complete money pit—and Skeeter left you more than comfortable. Why don’t you spend your time more wisely, working with the family charities a
nd taking care of your daughter?”

  Eleanor gritted her teeth and begged her temper to take a hike.

  “What’s that noise?” Margaret asked.

  “What? Oh, nothing. We’ve been over this before, Margaret. The Queen’s Box belongs to me. The insurance money and Skeeter’s trust have been set aside for Blakely when she’s of age. I can earn my own living.”

  Barely.

  “Stubborn mule,” Margaret quipped.

  “Meddlesome cow,” Eleanor returned, slapping a hand over her mouth.

  “What did you say?” Margaret squeaked.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean you, Margaret. Sorry. I was talking to Pansy about an item someone wants to buy,” Eleanor said loudly, hoping like hell Pansy would hear and save her.

  Like an angel, Pansy appeared in the doorway, holding up a finger to whoever stood at the counter.

  “I found the cow creamer set! Sorry to bother you,” Pansy yelled.

  “That’s okay. You didn’t know I was on the phone with my mother-in-law,” Eleanor said, pointing to the phone before slapping her hand once again over her mouth, this time to prevent laughter. Pansy grinned before ducking out. Sometimes it was a blessing that Pansy was nosy.

  “You talk very loudly, don’t you?” Margaret said with ice in her voice. Eleanor wasn’t sure the older woman had bought her white lie.

  But did it matter? Blakely was no longer living at home, and thus, the uneasy peace she’d kept between herself and her former in-laws seemed not as important. The Theriots made her unhappy, and she was tired of allowing their machinations to affect her outlook. Margaret knew how to suck the joy out of the happiest of occasions. “I wanted to discuss Blakely’s upcoming debutante season. I’m taking her to New York over spring break to shop for her wardrobe. I’ve already purchased airfare and secured a room at the Seasons.”

  Eleanor closed her eyes and counted to ten. Margaret knew very well Eleanor was taking Blakely and a few of her friends to the beach over spring break. She’d told the woman last weekend when she’d dropped by to help plan a bridal brunch honoring one of the Theriot cousins. Margaret’s presumptuousness was another attempt to gain control of Blakely’s life.